Bond But Not Blood
by L A Adolf
Summary: A disjointed series of "missing scenes" from the film Sherlock Holmes 2009, plus an imagined epilogue unconnected to the film but derived from canon. Semi beta'd. 5/2/10 added a line to cover action by Watson overlooked in original draft.


In Bond, Not Blood

_A disjointed series of missing scenes from Sherlock Holmes 2009 _

_And an epilogue of my own devising._

"You should be taking this man to hospital! Not gaol!" I exclaimed loudly at the two constables---neither of them Clarke, mores' the pity---waving grandiosely in Holmes' direction. They had separated us in the back of the Maria, my dear friend on one bench and I on the other, each of us ostensibly guarded by one of the pair.

"Looks fit enough to me, gov'nor. A lot more right than that slipway does after the pair of you got done with it."

I stifled a growl. Even now, Holmes was slumped, apparently insensible, against the wall of the conveyance, pale, a rivulet of blood still trickling down his temple. His mental state had been somewhat confused after we extricated ourselves from the slipway channel, his story about how he had ended up in his predicament more than a bit muddled. What was clear was that he had sustained a blow to his head, apparently against the copper bulkhead of the now sunken ship and had fallen into the guide way. That alone had saved his life, the multi ton ship skimming over his slight form on its way to the Thames.

It was not a good sign that he was unconscious again.

"I am a doctor and I maintain that the gentleman needs to be under professional care." I knew that defending our innocence of the havoc wreaked at the docks would serve no purpose, my assertion that a seven foot giant had been responsible had been dismissed as the ravings of a lunatic, and the workers, who could have substantiated my tale, had scattered to the four winds.

"Then you should be able to tend to him yourself," the self-same officer snapped back. "Settle down or I'll see about sending you off to the land of Nod to join him!"

"Capital idea! Release the cuffs and I shall!" I twisted on the bench in the direction of the loudmouth yarder's partner, ignoring a twinge from my leg, eyeballing my nemesis sharply.

The constable seemed torn between striking me and giving in to shut me up. Fortunately he had enough common sense to—albeit grudgingly-- gesture his compatriot to remove my restraints. I was at Holmes' side in a moment, sitting down on the bench next to him somewhat harder than I would have liked thanks to a sudden lurch of the Maria. I grasped his wrist, checking his pulse, then reached up to peel back first one eyelid then the other. Holmes did not stir, but the pupils of his eyes were equal, a hopeful sign. I let my fingers slip into his unruly hair, feeling for and finding a sizeable lump just above the hairline. He was breathing regularly, neither shallowly nor deeply. Without my Gladstone bag and its implements, this was really the only examination I could do.

"Holmes?" I spoke softly, touching his forearm gently. "Holmes…can you hear me?" I allowed my hand to slip up to his shoulder and gripped it with an even pressure.

"Hhhnnn…?" My friend moaned and stirred, but his eyes did not open.

"Holmes, please, old fellow, try to wake up for me?" I persisted in low tones.

"W-watson?" Came a muffled response, as though the speaker's lips did not want to form the sounds. Slowly, this eyes opened, the soulful brown orbs unerringly focusing on my face, if somewhat blearily.

"That's it!" I crowed, immensely relieved that it had not taken a more concerted effort. "Well done, old man!"

"Always…after me to sleep," the tone of the voice was affronted, even if the delivery of the sentiment was a bit mumbled. "Yet when I attempt to, you won't let me be." The brown eyes disappeared behind drowsy lids once more and my friend's head descended downward onto my near shoulder.

I hadn't the heart to do anything other than leave him to it. We might be facing a night in custody, and I could look forward to performing this ritual several times over to make sure that the blow to his head did not worsen into stupor or coma. But we were together and more or less in one piece.

Considering the events of this day, that was something to be thankful for.

********

"I daresay," Mary said quietly, slipping her small hand into mine, "that Mr. Holmes can more than take care of himself."

I looked out the carriage window at the teeming life of the London streets, as we put ever more distance between ourselves and the prison yard where I had left Holmes. Alone.

I could not erase from my mind the look in my dear friend's eyes as the gate shut between us.

"He can," I agreed, giving her hand a squeeze, more to reassure myself than my intended.

Holmes could—there was nothing he could not do when he put his not inconsiderable intellect to a problem. The only caveat to that truism was that he had to care enough to do so first. In spite of his own oft remarked on love of himself, there was a side to Sherlock—the same that drove him to box men double his size and indulge in the recreational use of ophthalmic medication, a seven-per-cent cocaine solution, in every manner except for what it was intended—that was frighteningly careless of his own safety, wellbeing and health.

What had Holmes related Blackwood had said of him in their last meeting before the "execution"? That he possessed a "fragility that worried" the evil lord? Holmes had presented his nemesis's words with a dismissive snort and casual wave of the hand. But I had been drawn up short by the acuity of Blackwood's observation.

Holmes _was_ fragile. And how very worrisome that Blackwood had seen it, sensed it and was in all likelihood even now plotting to use it against him.

I had to find a way to go Holmes' bail. He _was_ vulnerable. _Especially_ alone in that prison yard.

I could not fault my fiancée for not having sufficient means to meet bond for both of us. As it was, Mary had pillaged her own small savings and made up the rest with loans from her family and employer. I would see her reimbursed, but as a retired Army man on a pension only recently returned to medical practice, my own assets were far from liquid. Which made the problem set before me all the more troubling, how to set about securing Holmes' release?

As tired as I was, going into my thirty-sixth hour without solid sleep, my restless mind was obsessed with the topic, all the way back to Baker Street.

_Mycroft._ I had to get word to Mycroft.

******

There was deadly silence in the wake of the give and _snick_ of the trip wire, and I knew my fate was sealed. The slaughterhouse was rigged with explosives, and Blackwood was already well down the Thames, replacing his top hat on his head in completion of his having doffed it in a sinister farewell to the fly caught in his web.

Holmes would be right behind me. I could not save myself, I knew. But I could save him. He alone could stop Blackwood now…

Holmes was dashing out on to the loading dock, flying towards me, even as the first flash of fire burst forth.

I threw my hand out, palm forward in that universal gesture to halt. I shouted out his name, even as the air around me became superheated and stole my breath from my lungs.

"_HOLMES!!"_

My last memory before the entire world erupted in flames and pain was the stricken, heartsick look on my dearest friend's face as he skidded to a stop and the full realization of what was happening hit him. He would not escape all of the blast, but at least the most deadly part…

It was worth this, all of it, a dozen times over to know that he would survive, even if I would not.

*****

Whatever I had been given in the hospital made the ascent up the stairs to Holmes' bolt hole above the Punchbowl Tavern somewhat slow and unsteady, but the thought of what Holmes might be driven to do helped me to persevere. From what Mary had told me of his state when he'd made his disguised visit to my bedside after the explosion, anything and everything was possible.

So it was that I was not surprised to find Holmes slumped on the floor in the middle of an arcane symbol constructed of melted wax and chalk in the center of the room. What did surprise me was that Irene Adler, dressed in a traveling ensemble in the latest Parisian fashion, was seated next to him, her pale face drawn and intensely worried. She tossed a vial to one side in apparent frustration and pulled Holmes's head into her lap.

"Morphine or cocaine?" I asked, moving as quickly to the center of the tableau as I could and kneeling down, even as my shoulder protested the movement in concert with my game leg.

"What possible difference can it make?!" Adler's eyes were wide in shock and anger, "I'm not even sure he's breathing!" she snapped.

"Which drug he ingested will matter in how he is to be roused," I explained patiently, verifying that Holmes was indeed, breathing, if shallowly. My fascination with Adler's odd obsession with my friend would find much fuel in both her general mien and vocal intonation—but that would have to wait for another time.

"Both, I think. I can't be sure. I found bottles with remnants of both. We both know his housekeeping…"

"Help me get him onto the settee," I said, resigned to a long night ahead. "We've got our work cut out for us."

********

Holmes started awake several times during the next few hours, but each time his eyes were blank, whatever they saw did not include Miss Adler or myself. He was by turns feverish, skin burning hot then cold and clammy, shivering uncontrollably. He muttered unintelligibly, thrashing about on the makeshift bed we'd tried to settle him comfortably on, tossing off blankets only to scrabble pitiably after them when the next chill shook him.

At times he seemed to be reliving the explosion on the wharf, at other times engaging Blackwood---it was the only name he spoke distinctly—in a battle to the death, it was during this phantasm that his movements became less wild and more purposeful. Miss Adler and I took turns attempting to hold him still, but was increasingly hampered by my injured shoulder, the painkilling injection I'd been given at the hospital wearing slowly away during the long hours. As the result of one particularly sustained attempt to restrain Holmes from injuring himself, I ended up on the floor next to his cot. Adler, her attention never wavering from Holmes in all the time since I had entered the bolt-hole, was sufficiently distressed that she abandoned him at once, helped me to my feet and guided me to one of the straight backed chairs across the room from Holmes' bed. Without speaking a word, she sternly informed me by look and gesture that I was to stay put, and leave my friend in her charge. Every instinct I had rebelled against the very notion, but my exhaustion and weakness made the point moot.

I tried to distract myself by examining the wild scrawl of charcoal on the whitewashed walls. Never one to carry pen and paper—when he had me at his side he had no need to after all – he'd used what was available to list out the clues, the suspects. His agitation at the time was plain in the nature of the handwriting, he could command a fine legible hand when he put his mind to it, but this scribbling was disordered, disorganized and increasingly abstruse.

I saw, on the floor, the cheap violin he kept here, not risking his prized Stradivarius to the vicissitudes of life above a bare-knuckle fighting pit and drinking establishment. Not for the first time I wished that I could pick up and play the instrument---perhaps it would offer Holmes some comfort, reach him wherever his mind had wandered and lure him back to sensibility. His plaintive playing had soothed my soul many an evening, when pain from my war wound and the lingering aftereffects of its concomitant illness, plagued me. I was as useless to him musically as I currently was medically…

Blackwood was as clever as he was evil. He'd played every note on the instrument of his own depravity, sending Holmes into this wretched downward spiral. What had seemed only worrisome as he left the gaol yard—the evil lord's knowledge of Holmes vulnerability –now seemed heartbreakingly inevitable. There was no guarantee that Holmes would rouse from his state with mind and body intact.

********

I must have fallen into a doze, the next thing I knew was that Miss Adler had her hands around Holmes's throat and seemed to be in the process of throttling him, and I nearly leapt to my feet in surprise and shock, ready to throw her bodily of his body-- until I realized what she was doing. Holmes was convulsing, arms and legs flailing and swinging about with renewed vigor and almost superhuman strength. While hardly the method I would have employed, I understood her actions as an attempt to drive him into a true unconsciousness, to settle him down. I did stand and moved over to the settee, reaching to feel for Holmes pulse—it was racing so madly I feared that his noble heart would burst before her tactic was successful. But Holmes suddenly went limp, the frenetic pace of his heart beating slowing into a more regular rhythm even as my fingertips lingered.

Adler was looking at me, her eyes trailing from where I still held my hand to Holmes's carotid artery-- reassuring myself that the pulse beneath my fingers did not falter and stop-- up to my face with an expression that seemed an odd mixture of jealousy and acceptance. Suddenly self conscious, I dropped my hand from my dearest friend's pulse point and made my way back to the chair across the room, sitting heavily. Eventually Adler ceased her study of me, and returned her full attention to Holmes.

He roused suddenly, not five minutes later, seeming to throw off his stupor, his head turned toward me almost as if by instinct that I was there. It was, therefore, me that those fathomless brown eyes focused on first, their expression at first disbelieving.

"Good morning," Irene chirped sweetly, and Holmes turned his head away to stare at her, as though he had just realized she was there. "Time to get to work," She stated, dropping his hand and moving away.

For all my fears of the night, Holmes was regarding me again with the familiar keen intelligence shining in his eyes, and my heart swelled at the realization that whatever else he had experienced during this dark and horrifying night, he was still Holmes, somehow miraculously whole if not completely untouched. I watched as he sat up, movement slow but graceful. I could not help the words that tumbled, unedited out of my mouth:

"You look _gorgeous_!"

********

"Aren't you---" My thought was abruptly cut off by the not unkind pressure of Holmes' hand on the top of my hat followed by the shadow of the trapdoor as it closed above me. "---coming?" I finished in a whisper. I paused to hear Holmes addressing Lestrade, then followed Adler down the narrow stairway as silently as possible. The escape route led to a corridor, which opened on an alley on the opposite side of the Punchbowl. I could hear the sounds of Lestrade's men shuffling about at the far side, complaining loudly enough about being left to guard the rear, that they did not hear us moving on the opposite side of a high fence.

It was against every instinct that I possessed, to leave Holmes in that place, to be arrested and taken before the Home Secretary who had ordered his arrest, and who it seemed from what Holmes had inferred, was under Blackwood's thrall.

I had had only the barest chance to touch him before we parted, a quick squeeze to his leg as I descended into the escape hatch---one small chance to assure myself that he was as whole and steady as he seemed. In that same hand I now held the note he'd pressed into my hand at our parting, a letter of instruction. Once we were assured that no one had noted our emergence from the vicinity of the Punchbowl, I opened my fist and taking the small scrap of paper between both my hands, read his directive.

As ever, he had considered and prepared for every eventuality, crisp, clear directions on what our actions should be, a rendezvous already formulated with a contingency or two sketched out—sent us on our way. Myself to round up Captain Tanner and his trusty vessel, Adler to change into clothing more appropriate for a rough and tumble rescue that seemed to be in our immediate future.

********

Somewhere, in the madness and mayhem, I had mislaid my cane sword.

Once Dredger was unconscious, I regained my feet and leaned against the wall of the chamber, catching my breath and trying to ignore the pains that screamed out me from various parts of my anatomy. After procuring the services of Captain Tanner once again, knowing that I could ill afford to give in to the weaknesses that plagued me, I had self administered a light dose of morphia. Just enough to keep me on my feet and the pain of the shoulder wounds to a manageable level. I would be due for another dose sooner rather than later. But first things must come first.

I gathered my strength and my wits and charged out of the chamber that held the now defanged machine of death. A Yarder, a sergeant, hailed me, we exchanged pleasantries and I directed him to guard the machine. He confirmed that Lestrade and company were on their way. As ever, I felt compelled to follow Holmes, as hopeless a task as that might be. He had probably a good twenty minutes lead on me now in his pursuit of Adler, but I had to try.

There were many false turnings and dead ends, but eventually I did find myself emerging on the towering construction of the bascule/suspension bridge Holmes had marveled at what seemed an eternity ago, on the day of Blackwood's execution. My eyes found Holmes immediately. He was gazing downward through a gaping hole in the scaffolding, unmoving, deathly pale. I could see, even from this distance that he had been involved in some kind of struggle, saw the slice to his jacket and hurried forward. He seemed almost to be in shock. As I came close I saw that he gripped my sword cane in the fist of his of his injured arm, a line of fresh blood streaking out from under his cuff.

"Holmes!" I spoke urgently as I reached his side and touched him tentatively. He flinched, seeming to come back to himself all at once. He looked utterly done for in one second and stunned to be seeing me in the next.

"Watson!" He held up the cane, "Blackwood had this…I feared… Are you quite all right, old fellow?" The brown eyes were less guarded than usual, genuine and heartfelt concern pouring from them.

"I'm fine, Holmes!" I responded to that look, taking the cane from him, then moving my hand from his shoulder down to the wound in his arm. He closed his eyes momentarily, and almost seemed to swoon, I steadied him, removed the cravat scarf he held loosely in his left hand and tied it above the slash to his arm. Quick inspection revealed that it was, as wounds went, minor, but would need a good cleaning and quite possibly a few stitches, when the opportunity presented itself. "Blackwood?"

Holmes cast a glance down at the gaping hole in the scaffold. My eyes wide with realization, I spared a glance to see Blackwood swinging from the end of a length of chain. The black devil would not be resurrecting himself this time.

"Adler, the poison…?" I queried again.

Holmes was silent, and I felt a stab at my heart when my eyes fell to the dual chamber of cyanide lying at his feet.

"He pushed her off…" Holmes suddenly said, as though the memory had just returned to him---and quite possibly it had. He scrambled to the edge of the scaffolding and peered down. I limped over to where he stood. Irene Adler was laying brokenly on a platform not a dozen feet below where we stood.

"She's breathing, Holmes." I stated reassuringly. Her body alignment indicated that no major bones had likely been broken, if the woman's usual luck held…she might have escaped serious injury.

"I must go to her, Watson. I seem to have lost my darbies---is it possible that you might still…" Holmes looked at me, a more normal look of purpose crossing his features. Dredgers massive hands and wrists were too large for the set I routinely carried, so I did indeed still have them in a trousers pocket. I handed them over to Holmes, along with the keys.

Below I could hear the shrill piping of police whistles, and as Holmes crawled down to where Adler lay, I waved down, catching the eye of no less a personage than Lestrade himself. By gesture he acknowledged my silent hail and pointed upwards, sending a squad of constables in our direction.

Below, Holmes was snapping the cuffs around Adler's wrists. I stepped back and away, going back to keep watch over Blackwood's swinging corpse. Whatever the two had to say to each other, it was not for my ears.

Holmes clambered back to the top deck some minutes later, quite alone.

"You let her go?" I asked, already knowing that he had done just that.

"The poison is here. She identified her employer. It seemed the least I could do." Holmes' voice was low, tired. "It's over."

He held out an object to me, which I accepted, puzzled. When I opened the hand to view the item he pressed into my palm, I was boggled at the size of the jewel glittering there.

"To replace the ring you lost at Rierdons lair. It should fit nicely into an engagement setting." He said simply, a heartfelt smile quirking up the ends of his mouth.

Whatever I might have said was lost in the arrival of Lestrade and his boys. I would thank him later, once we had a moment to ourselves.

********

Contrary to all expectations, Sherlock Holmes did indeed attend my wedding to Mary, a few weeks after the close of the Blackwood case. He was perfectly groomed, charming in the way only he could be when he set his mind to it. He claimed one of the first dances with my bride, presented me with a case of prized cigars in congratulation.

The new or perhaps it really was reopened, case involving—we now knew, thanks to Adler's confession to Holmes—Professor Moriarty had taken much of his time and to look at him the day of the ceremony, nearly all his energy, but for that day at least, the criminals of London seemed far away. He was one of the last guests to leave, was effusive in his congratulations to we, the newlywed couple. I admit that both Mary and I basked in the warmth of his apparent bonhomie. We vowed to have him over often, and privately, Mary told me that if I wished to continue pursuing cases with Holmes, she would be happy to give her blessing.

I never had the chance to tell him that.

Two days later, a note reached me, at Mycroft Holmes' Chichester estate---our wedding present from Holmes had been the full use of his brother's estate as a honeymoon venue---delivered by one of the Irregulars. It was in Holmes' own hand.

He'd left the country, the morning after my wedding, hot in pursuit of Moriarty "The Napoleon of Crime" and his minions—destination unknown at the time of his writing the note. He had Clarky in tow, the missive said, with Lestrade's blessing and had every confidence of putting an end to the cunning Professor's nefarious activities and retrieving the missing piece of Blackwood's instrument of destruction. He bade me not to worry, offered me his very best wishes on my new life, signing off with a flourish.

Several days later---after wiring and hounding Lestrade, Mycroft and succeeding waves of government officials mercilessly for word of Holmes and Clark—Mary and I presented ourselves at Scotland Yard, demanding to know why our every inquiry had been met with vague reassurances in the place of hard facts.

Constable Clark, looking somewhat the worse for wear, was in Lestrade's office as we entered. I stalked over to him, a demand to know where Holmes was on my lips until my eyes met those of this best of the yarders.

"I'm sorry, sir. I failed him …" Clark's eyes were bright with tears, "and you."

The tale of the events at Reichenbach Falls poured forth from his lips, the full horror of what had occurred, stunning physically as well as mentally. I slumped, disbelieving, into a chair pushed under me at the last moment before I fell by a perceptive and quick witted Lestrade.

It could not _be_. Sherlock Holmes could not be _dead_. Not while I basked in my newfound domestic happiness at Mycroft Holmes' Chichester estate.

Not without me _there. _ At his side.

But bit by bit I was convinced it was true. I even stood on the spot, looking down into the maw of that awful rush of powerful water, clutching the note that Clark had given me that fateful day. He'd found it, with Holmes' walking stick, upon realizing he had been duped into leaving Holmes alone near the falls.

"_My Dear Watson:_

"_I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police…they certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you._

"_No possible conclusion to my career could be more congenial to me than this. I made every disposition of my property before leaving England and handed it to my brother Mycroft. Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,_

"_Very sincerely yours, _

"_Sherlock Holmes._

I returned to England, an utterly broken man. Mary understood my pain, and it was only through her unstinting love and support that I managed to regain some semblance of myself and continue forward in life. In time I wrote a version of how, if the same end must have been reached, I would have preferred it to end. Constable Clark was kind enough to fill in the details of Holmes' last days, and at least in this memoir, I was able to be where I should have been. It did little to assuage the never ending grief and regret I have and will always suffer, but it at least allowed me to show my face in public.

There was one lie I could not write in _**the Adventure of the Final Problem**_. I ended that piece of fiction with "I shall ever regard as the best and wisest man I had ever known". There was one fact for which I had not and never would forgive myself.

I had never told Sherlock Holmes that he was the one true love of my life.

Fin….


End file.
